


Consumer Need

by virtuoso



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M, Other, Strange!Gerard, Train Commute!Au, homeless!frank, short fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 03:00:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1064959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virtuoso/pseuds/virtuoso
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The train's a great place for people-watching.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Consumer Need

Τα ράσα δεν κάνουν τον παπά.

The morning commute was a silent one especially at 6am when the sun had just barely gotten out of its lazy glide across the world. The 6.35 train was most commonly referred to as the ‘tin can’ in comparison to the other new trains that sparkled in the sun and infected joy amongst its passengers.  

There’s always the corporate woman who’s wearing tight dresses in light shades of grey out of policy. Her powdered wrinkles barely visible with specks falling on top of her neat stack of business notes in a glossy auburn sleeve. And then there’s the corporate man in his polished attire of dark greys, with fellow suits occupying most seats and making crude jokes.

Amongst this mess of societal pressure, is always the outcast. Even the profanity-spewing high schoolers integrated at a more acceptable level in society than the outcast.

The outcast may be of any gender, or none. The outcast is always dressed in a bizarre fashion, always with a dozen loose threads. The lack of pristine glow leaves the outcast forgotten in the midst of diamond laundry detergents and bragging home smells. The outcasts have this unforgiving nature in their stance, this pride that none of the suits can even think about on a Saturday. The outcast shades their eyes with hats, sunglasses, eyelids, whatever’s available. The corner of their lips twisted in a smug grin. Nose up-turned but graceful.

This particular outcast on the 6.35 train was barely an adult, maybe thirty-three. Sitting there with Oliver Goldsmith’s infamous Dark Tortoiseshell glasses perched up on their narrow, sky-pointed nose with a bright red mouth right below. The outcast’s horribly bleached hair pointed in every direction and reaching a pair of exposed shoulders. The audience’s eyes are now lead to the unshaved pits and the shameless wearing of a black Givenchy dress. Not as remarkable as Audrey but not as tasteless as Natalie.

This outcast’s bare arms were covered in an abundance of words. Just to pick out a few: ‘cannon’ ‘Gauguin’ ‘poly’ ‘idol’ – the next word always just as disconnected. On their right wrist was a blurry smudge of a Japanese family symbol similar to Crass’ immortal logo.

On the other end of the wavy spectrum of suits and outcasts was Frank Iero, frequent commuter whose hobbies included watching people on the 6.35 train. Most of the time, he would sit there in his usual seat and watch people until the train would reach a dead-end. He was jobless, and homeless, but he liked to keep connections with society even if it meant being chased by transit officers for not purchasing a train ticket. He tried to explain to them that ‘wanderers don’t need tickets to see the world; it’s a free experience, Officer Bailey’ but they would never reply.

Frank always smelt stale, his short brown hair was glued together with grease, but fortunately his nails were bitten down to a size that couldn’t capture the dirt in the bins he would scavenge. On lucky days, he could find a cigarette at a decent length that didn’t have to be pieced together like Frankenstein’s monster only with less organs and more nicotine. On bad days, he would accidentally shove a hand through an angry child’s diaper and spend the day in the abandoned shopping centre’s ruins and pray for rain.

It was the start of a bitter winter, when an outcast and Frank Iero finally crossed paths. The mediocre, repetitive days were over considering the weather decided to cool down from autumn’s hot allergies. And the nameless outcast decided to start taking the 6.35 train.

Frank had paced down the streets of CBD looking for an open shop with the time figuring out if he had a moment to scavenge bins and reach the closest station without missing the golden train. All his well-dressed friends were on board and he just couldn’t lose the precious moments they had together.

In his stolen black doc martens, he skipped the bin breakfast and knocked a few of the early rising elderly trying to squeeze himself into the carriage before the doors hacked off his ankle. Luckily, the train guard’s morning vision didn’t realise the endangered man wasn’t a suit or a student. And he was definitely not a homeless 30 year old radiating toxic fumes in a poncho and tattered jeans. The doors opened and he was free to sit in his backseat staring at a handful of people busy choking in their feminine perfumes and masculine after-shaves to notice the rotting corpse watching them in fascination.

Two stops later, the alien-wearing outcast makes their debut into the public transport market. They let out a yawn that almost sounded like a cat wearing a human suit especially when they scratched at the back of their neck and winced tightening up their facial features. Without looking to see who was in the back seat, the outcast walks down the stairs and slides into the seat.

Frank struggles to pull his sickening grey poncho free from the stranger’s behind which was only seconds from Frank’s lap if he didn’t shift out of reflex. Minutes pass, and Frank gives up with the passive tug of war. He didn’t want to disturb the seemingly asleep person and at the same time, he felt guilty they were sitting on his disgusting poncho wet from months of sweating and sleeping in a shaded alleyway and smelling like a sleazy bar’s bathroom.

Staring at the new person to his left, Frank can’t help but notice the vibrant red lipstick and how much this person looks like a punk Audrey Hepburn. He thought of the person as a ‘she’ but in these days, there were all sorts of identities. He didn’t care a whole lot but he noticed she had a masculine jaw and he could swear there were remnants of stubble across her face. Maybe it was a hormone thing, like his Aunt Martha who had a scratchy face when she kissed his cheeks a dozen times and told him to call her ‘Uncle Max’ last year at Christmas.

‘You could just ask me to move so you could get your clothes from under my ass, y’know?’ The voice was soft and light-hearted yet deep and hoarse. It took him out of his lazy daydream and he just stared at her with eyes wide. He couldn’t see her eyes but her face was directly in front of him. And her crossed legs were pointing at his dirt-covered waist.

‘I’m sorry, I just… thought that … sleeping and … didn’t want to … disturb? I’m Frank,’ he blurts out of instinct and years of Greek orthodox schooling while pulling his poncho free.

‘I’m Gerard. I am in no way a woman. I can tell you were curious,’ Gerard laughed and stuck his hand out, ‘Nice to meet you.’

Frank stuck his hand out the window and watched the dirt slip through his fingertips. In a hurry, he smiled wide and shook Gerard’s hand that had been waiting a few seconds or so.

‘Pleasure’s mine, m’lady,’ beamed Frank, bringing Gerard’s hand to his stained and cracked lips. And the pleasure really was his.

This was all he had ever wanted.

 


End file.
